Vitiate
by Christina Bakura
Summary: [Ryou/Zorc] After a considerably lengthy stay within his Soul Room, a furious Ryou Bakura decides to take drastic action against the Spirit of the Ring; and unwittingly releases an even greater evil in the process. Collaboration with the wonderful Albino Shadowz.
1. In Which Kul Elna is Desecrated

**Ono: And so, an epic tale commences. :D**

_Christina: An epic tale of demons, desecration and death!_

**Ono: Sounds just up our alley. **

_Christina: Too right. xD_

**Ono: Sinshipping has got to be the greatest idea since forever. **

_Christina: And when we say 'Sinshipping', we mean Ryou/Zorc. Yes. You read that correctly._

**Ono: I think only we could come up with something so epic. :') **

_Christina: And completely messed up. ^^_

**Ono: Unfortunately for you and fortunately for your mental health, Zorc does not appear in this chapter. Boooo. **

_Christina: But when he appears, you'll know about it. THERE WILL BE BLOOD. _

**Ono: And... and... I don't know exactly how to refer to the demonic pornographic-ish stuff that will undoubtedly happen at some point, but... THERE'S THAT, TOO! :D**

_Christina: So brace yourselves. xD_

* * *

**_Vitiate_**

**_ One - In Which Kul Elna is Desecrated_**

* * *

Ryou dabbed his paintbrush into viscid, sand-coloured varnish for what seemed like the millionth time that day, and sighed loudly. The diorama - half-finished, with several colourless pyramids nestled amongst other, currently indistinguishable buildings - was a chore, to say the least.

Watching the thick liquid drip from the brush, Ryou couldn't help but wonder what his friends - if they could really be called that - were doing on this fine, midsummer afternoon, while he was cooped up in his apartment, carrying out the bidding of the Voice.

The Voice wanted him to construct a diorama. This hadn't seemed much of a problem; Ryou had created many in the past, and found great enjoyment in the activity. Except, this one would be different. Instead of the usual, fictional world, the Voice wanted a scaled-down replica of Egypt. He also seemed content to let Ryou slowly rot and wither away inside the apartment, until the damned thing was finished.

He went out of his way to be specific in his orders, reprimanding Ryou whenever there was even the smallest incorrect detail. The latter found himself growing steadily more irritated whenever he was interrupted midway into his work, just so that the Voice could correct him again. Whether the colour of the stone was several shades too dark, or the size of the palace was not proportional to the other buildings... there was always _something._

"There's not supposed to be anything there," Ryou murmured as he put his chin in his hand and examined the offending spot on the board.

The presence in the back of his mind bristled, causing an involuntary shiver to run down his spine. _Excuse me? _

"I _said,_" he set his paint brush down with a _splat _before pointing, "There isn't a village there. I've done research and there's absolutely nothing there."

_Don't question me, host. _

Ryou scowled, checking his notes once again for the non-existent village that the Voice had specifically _insisted _he create. "So, this diorama isn't based purely on reality, then?" he asked, genuinely curious.

The Voice merely growled in response; apparently Ryou had struck a nerve with his offhand comment, although he couldn't imagine why.

He picked up the paintbrush once again and dipped it into a pot of murky, off-coloured water. He set about finishing the half-finished polyresin pyramid he'd been working on diligently for the past twenty minutes, humming a little to himself and trying to keep his mind from drifting.

Thoughts of the strange village continued to pester him though, and the other presence clearly felt bothered by this - if his constant shifting in the back of Ryou's mind was anything to judge by. Ryou had the most uncomfortable feeling that there was someone watching over his shoulder, breathing down his neck, but whenever the paranoia got to him he would turn only to see that there was nothing there. The Voice was just that; a voice.

He attempted to let his thoughts slide back into the same realm that they were in before, but inadvertently they kept creeping back to the village. His eyes would dart over to the far corner of the board, the location the site it had been designated, and wondered if he'd detected the smallest bit of feeling in the Voice's tone when-

_Stop._

Ryou couldn't help himself. Why was the Voice so insistent that he construct a village that didn't exist in what was otherwise a replica of the real Ancient Egypt? What purpose did it serve? What did it-

There was a flash of blinding, white light; the transition was so sudden that he didn't even get the chance to cry out. He was in his soul room.

_If you want something done right..._

The Voice's muttering echoed throughout the confined space. As if _he _had a right to complain.

Ryou sat up, supporting himself on one elbow. He had appeared on his bed this time around, which was no small mercy considering the fact that a couple of times before he landed flat on his face with his spiritual nose squished against the cold wooden floor.

He felt the most overwhelming urge to lash out at something as he often did when the Voice ripped control from him. The feeling soon simmered down, after a few calming breaths.

The situation would play out as it always did. The Voice would use Ryou's flesh as his own for a while and, whenever he saw fit, he would give it back to its rightful owner. And, in this instance, he wasn't attempting to seal anyone's soul into miniatures or playing cards or involving the body in some other such scheme that might end up being life threatening - he just wanted to complete the wretched diorama. It seemed inane enough to not cause too much concern.

With these assumptions to reassure him Ryou curled up on his side and snuggled into the pillow splayed across the headboard, not bothering to wrap the comforter around himself. After a while he squeezed his eyes shut and attempted to lull himself to sleep.

Some time later Ryou sat up, giving up all hope of passing the time by napping. Luckily for him his soul room was equipped with means of entertaining himself. He didn't spare a glance at the art supplies resting on a desk in one corner - the mere thought of just looking at something even vaguely related to the diorama made vexation begin to stew in the pit of his stomach. Instead he headed straight for the bookshelf adjacent to his bed to pick out the volume he had read halfway through the last time the Voice possessed him.

Ryou settled back on the bed with _Doctor Faustus _in hand, this time sliding halfway beneath the comforter and using the pillow to prop himself up against the headboard. Quickly he found himself lost in the intrigue of the Renaissance play.

It was required for him to read it in school a while before, back before he had transferred to Domino. In spite of the story being a tragic one, Ryou couldn't help but enjoy reading it over and over again. A form of escapism, really, from his own - while wildly different - sort of tragedy. He had to convince himself that it wasn't because he was revelling in the suffering that befell the main character. That would just be sick.

Just like that, Ryou found himself back in control.

He blinked blearily and the fuzzy image of the unfinished - no, finished, now, he realised after a moment of regarding the board in front of him and not catching sight of any exposed wood - game world.

Ryou sat in the same chair he had been in when the Voice had taken over, albeit now he was slumped over with his head resting against his right arm. As he attempted to lift his head he became aware that it seemed much, much heavier than usual, as did the rest of his body, like his bones were weighed down with lead. He felt _exhausted._

The blissful silence was interrupted with a loud rumble, deep and indignant, which took a few seconds to register as an indication from his stomach that he was hungry; famished, in fact. It felt as though he hadn't eaten anything for _days._

Because he probably hadn't, he soon realised.

One painful trek across the living room to search for his mobile phone later, and he was on his knees attempting to find the thing in his satchel. He pawed through the contents blindly for a moment before finally growing frustrated enough to dump everything out. Ryou exhaled slowly when he realised that his phone wasn't among the spilled papers and separated folders.

This meant that the Voice - although clearly much more tangible than a mere growl in the deep recesses of his mind when he'd carried out the deed - had moved it.

Ryou put one hand to his throbbing forehead, brushing aside his sweat-laden bangs and hissed between his teeth. Everything _ached _and he wanted nothing more than to berate the Voice for leaving him in such a state without any way of telling how much time had passed or what had even happened during that time.

He couldn't find his phone, so he didn't know what day it was and how much school he may or may not have missed. His stomach was completely empty, his mouth was, god, it smelled like something had died in his apartment. It took a few moments to realise that it was himself. Had the Voice even considered _showering? _

Since he felt like he was going to chew his own arm off sooner than he would figure out what date it was, Ryou headed to the refrigerator, fully prepared to empty it of half its contents. His stomach gurgled in anticipation as he began to remove items at random, anything that would fill him up - and then he saw it.

Ryou blinked, wondering if he was delirious. If his mind wasn't playing tricks on him, his phone was currently nestled between a carton of eggs and a milk jug. Of all the bizarre places...

Snatching up the device - which was significantly cooler than usual, and whirred itself to live _painfully _slowly - he scrolled through countless messages from Yugi, most pertaining to his whereabouts and growing steadily more concerned as the hours - and days - went by. He had missed a call from his father... but no message, as usual. Not that Ryou expected anything less.

Approximately four days - and about three hours, if he wanted to be precise - had passed since he'd last be in control of the body. _His _body.

This fact - coupled with starvation, fatigue and body odour fit to rival that of an ogre's - made Ryou angry. Furious, in fact.

"Are you _trying_ to kill our -" he realised what he was saying and quickly corrected himself. "- _my_ body? It would help if you took at least a _little _care of it if you insist on being in control for so long."

The Voice, for once, remained silent. The fact that he saw no reason to justify his actions to his unwitting_ 'host' _only served to taunt the boy, riling him further.

Ryou slammed the door of the fridge closed with more force than necessary, before glancing down at his chest. He doubled back, opening the refrigerator before whipping the Millennium Ring off over his head and throwing it among the assortment of now stale cheeses at the back.

He stared at the gold shining in the fluorescent light for a moment, then, before he could think better of his reckless action, shut the door once again.

It felt much more freeing than it should have with the weight of the Ring not bearing down on his neck and the constant lingering of the being inhabiting it around him. For a moment Ryou just breathed deeply and relished the feeling... only to shortly afterward be thrown into panic.

The Voice was going to _kill _him for this.

Unless someone killed the Voice first. Although, the likelihood that anything of the sort would happen was slim to none. Ryou hated feeling so useless, so _powerless, _in comparison to the Voice, the parasitic fiend who controlled him, his puppeteer. When it came right down to it, he was losing control over his body to a possessed _necklace. _

And it made him feel so _angry._

The next thing he knew, he was back in the living room. There it was. Completed, some of the varnish still glistening in the dim lamplight, the diorama, the _bane _of his existence.

He walked over, furious enough that he could block out the hunger pangs and the heaviness of fatigue that his body was constantly tormented by with every step, and examined the handiwork of the Voice.

He had a shaky hand, Ryou noted, judging by the smudged lines and the running of the paint in some areas. The imperial palace had fared the worst, a splotchy mess of dirty grey, slightly yellowed around the edges. Ryou couldn't help but wonder if this had been deliberate on the Voice's part, since he did have a deep lying hatred of the Spirit of the Millennium Puzzle. Exactly _why _this hatred seemed to drive on the Voice was beyond Ryou - it wasn't as though he could casually chat with him about it over tea sometime, or even communicate with him much for that matter. He could only guess.

Of course, _that _village - the cause of all Ryou's current problems, in the corner of his line of vision - was completed to perfection, painted smoothly and carefully as though the Voice had spent the majority of his time on this one particular section. Something told him that his hatred was irrational - it was just _wood_, for the love of god - but oh, he despised it._  
_

Before he could stop himself, Ryou reached out and dragged the heel of his hand across the paintwork. Much to his chagrin, the varnish had dried and the action had little effect.

Subsequently, he snapped the damned thing off of the board completely. Hut by hut, Ryou brutally attacked until there was nothing but pathetic wooden stumps of what had once been the beautifully crafted miniature village. They were thrown one by one onto the ground, some of the last few spattered with blood.

The fractured pieces of wood gave Ryou splinters, and the skin on his hands was torn up due to his frenzied ministrations. The thick liquid - much like the consistency of the paint - dripped over the model, ruining both the Voice's handiwork and his own.

Soon afterward he was sucking at the small bits of wood stuck in his fingertips, even going so far as to tear at them with his teeth. Blood began to drool out of the widened wounds, and Ryou found himself starting to concentrate on slurping at the coppery-tasting fluid instead of taking the splinters out.

The village was destroyed... but he still felt like breaking something, in order to quell his pent-up fury. Not any more of the model, though, unless he wanted to be ripping wood out of his hand all night.

His half-lidded eyes shifted to his notes. A fraction of a second after he'd first considered it, he knocked the orderly stack over with one hand. The result of scattered papers fluttering to the floor wasn't nearly as gratifying as tearing apart the Voice's precious village, but it still gave Ryou a small bit of satisfaction. He found himself wondering if he should upend the entire table when he caught sight of something that had, up until that moment, been hidden beneath the pile of paper.

Leather bound and adorned with cursive, almost indistinguishable script across the cover, the thick book had been a gift from his ever ignorant father - a fifteenth birthday present, if he recalled correctly. An interesting read, to say the least, dealing specifically in Egyptian magic, curses and rituals.

They'd even listed a few of the latter as examples, although Ryou had always skimmed over those parts. He was somewhat repulsed by their bizarre instructions, and thoroughly sickened at just the thought of the grotesque items that had been listed as 'ingredients'.

An alien thought began to manifest itself somewhere within his subconscious. It shocked him, although not necessarily in a bad way. Sure, he'd often thought of life without the Voice - the insufferable, omnipresent being who'd stolen his identity along with his freedom - but the prospect of this was small in his current situation; a dim light at the end of a long, winding tunnel. He'd never once considered that he might have within _him_ the ability to destroy the Spirit of the Millennium Ring.

Would there be a spell within the book that could assist him, though?

There _had_ to be.

Kneeling amongst the scattered papers, Ryou reached out with the bloodied, indistinguishable masses that were supposedly his hands and grasped the book. His usually plain, apathetic expression deformed without him realising, transforming into a somewhat maniacal grin.

With quivering hands, he turned the front cover.

* * *

_Christina: So, what did you think of it? Do you like the idea of Sinshipping?_

**Ono: You should totally tell us in a review. Otherwise... we might have to do something drastic. **

_Christina: … We might have to set Psycho!Ryou on you and, trust me, that wouldn't be pretty._

**Ono: Particularly not if we starved/refused to bathe him/didn't let him sleep beforehand. :)**

_Christina: So, you know what to do..._

**Ono: If you know what's good for you, that is. ;)**


	2. In Which Substitutions Are Made

_Christina: … We're back._

**Ono: Yepppp. Didja miss us?**

Readers: Nope.

_Christina: ...Oh, love you too._

**Ono: To be fair, we DID get a couple of lovely reviews. xD**

_Christina: For which we are eternally grateful... your souls shall be saved._

**Ono: Congrats to NushiKasai and GirlWhoHasNoName. ;P**

_Christina: You're awesome. ^_^_

**Ono: And so, we present another lovely chappeh. One which, unfortunately, has only the smallest dose of Zorc. WAHHHHH.**

_Christina: However, it does contain copious amounts of pain and mutilation. Joy!_

**Ono: We're Bakura/Ryou fangirls. We really cannot help ourselves. :')**

_Christina: And so, the story continues..._

* * *

_**Vitiate**_

_**Two - In Which Substitutions are Made**_

* * *

The living room of the Bakura household had been thrown into disarray within a short period of time. In addition to the broken fragments of diorama littering the floor, cupboards had been opened and their contents emptied out, with all unwanted objects merely being thrown into a pile and forgotten about.

Ryou needed ingredients.

Of course, the actual ingredients for the spell he'd discovered were almost impossible for him to acquire with any sort of haste. The first on the list - a vial of water from the Nile, specifically during the flood season - was deceptively innocuous. As his eyes travelled further down the page, past _blood of a female jackal_, _left eyeball of a priest of Osiris_ and other such unsavoury things, it became clear that a certain degree of substitution was in order.

The spell itself was simple enough, thankfully, and didn't _appear_ to be dangerous (then again, gaudy pieces of gold jewelry never looked dangerous to him before he learned of the spirit that the Ring contained, either). There was a short incantation - written originally in hieratic, but translated into English - that wouldn't prove too difficult to master. Almost like a children's nursery rhyme.

He hoped that the spell would have the desired effect.

'A ritual commonly used to exorcise demons,' the book had stated. Ryou thought that the Spirit of the Millennium Ring would most certainly fall into the 'demonic' category. He could only hope that the ancient spell would work for him, what with all of his makeshift ingredients, and that he didn't end up turning the spirit into a vicious animal or some other such thing. Best/worst case scenario, nothing would happen.

For what seemed like the hundredth time Ryou found himself distracted from reading the book by a low rumble accompanied by a twinging pain in his empty stomach.

He put a hand to his midsection and attempted to rub it into quieting as he scrutinised the text some more, but his stomach's complaints won out. Eventually he couldn't bear to read any more about having to use a portion of a partially mummified brain while subconsciously thinking about food and put the book down.

Time was of the essence, but it would only take a few minutes, at most, for him to cram half of whatever sustenance in his apartment offered into his mouth.

He arrived in front of the fridge and tore it open before remembering that the Millennium Ring was still inside. The eye in the centre of the pendant glared at him accusingly and for a moment Ryou found himself wondering whether or not the thing would spring up and plunge all of the pendulums into his chest as they had so very long ago.

With this thought in mind he slammed the door shut once more and resolved to eat a piece of fruit instead.

Upon reaching the well-stocked fruit bowl on the other side of the small kitchen, however, the hungry teen was met with a dilemma. In the four days that he'd been trapped inside his soul room, the bananas, apples and oranges had grown discoloured, and a slightly fuzzy growth had begun to form across their skins. It wasn't exactly appetizing, to say the least.

Picking up the banana, and peeling back the bruised, brown skin, he noted the soggy consistency of the flesh; could this possibly work as a substitute for a decomposed brain? Deciding against it, he dropped the mouldy mess back into the plastic container and proceeded to dump the entirety of the bowl's contents into the rubbish bin.

Five minutes later and he was sufficiently satiated, thanks to the box of cornflakes he'd discovered that - although incredibly dry without any milk - seemed to be the only edible thing within the apartment at this moment in time.

Stomach temporarily filled, he crouched on the floor of the living room, amongst the wreckage, and looked over the ritual once again, attempting to decide on suitable substitutes for the foul ingredients listed.

River water from the Nile would be simple enough. Some tap water would suffice; maybe he'd boil it in the kettle for a little while (because, well, it was hot in Egypt). There was something about the bandages of a mummified serpent, but some ripped-up articles of clothing could probably work.

Once or twice it struck Ryou how pathetic he was being with his sad attempts at a grotesque spell in order to destroy an ancient spirit, but it was brushed away in light of his despondency.

Everything that hadn't been thrown directly into the assorted mess of the huts and other broken objects were meticulously arranged on the game board, sorted according to the book's instructions. It required a bit more destruction to the buildings, but Ryou had little problem with that. The carefully sanded pyramids soon joined the wreckage along with more than a few obelisks. (He made sure to leave the palace fully intact, however, just to spite the Voice.)

And the next ingredient was... _the hand of a thief._

* * *

It was with no small measure of relief that the Spirit of the Millennium Ring stumbled into his soul room. His spirit was as exhausted as he had left his host's body and he wanted nothing more than sleep. He had always been of the opinion that slumbering the hours away was a waste of time (he'd spent thousands of years in an almost hibernation-like state within the Ring and figured that he had done more than enough) but at the moment he felt tired enough to set aside this such thoughts. He would just... take a little nap. Just as much time as it would take for him to get rid of the fatigue that had settled like a heavy quilt over his body.

The darkness that permeated his room quickly swallowed him up as he let the door fall shut behind him, cutting off the tiny ray of light that had spilled in from the hallway. By memory and touch he walked into the blackness towards where he slept, hunched over and blinking his bloodshot eyes rapidly to keep them from drooping shut.

He collapsed on his bed upon reaching it, drawing the heavy comforter around himself to keep away the chill that permanently existed within the space. The warmth that he discovered such bedding provided was much appreciated - though he would never admit to getting the idea to have this particular kind of bedclothes after seeing that his host sleeping with them. It would be downright embarrassing if someone were to realize that the "evil Spirit of the Ring" actually rather liked being kept warm after so much time spent in the frigid regions of the desert at night.

The spirit turned onto his side, further bundling himself up. Despite how weary and worn out he was, he felt satisfied with his completion of the Ancient Egypt model. Soon, so very soon, his plans would come to fruition. He would_ finally_ destroy the wretched Pharaoh.

A little smile, the mixture of a twisted smirk and a more genuine expression, curled his lips just before he fell asleep.

* * *

The blood drained from Ryou's face, leaving him ashen as he stared at the yellowing page. Why? Why, of all things, did it have to be that?

Not to mention that the book recommended that it be fresh. Fresh. Like it was a vegetable or some other such thing instead of a _human hand._

The half-digested corn flakes in his stomach began to swirl around uncomfortably as he found himself examining his own hands, still spattered with paint and dried blood. They were delicate things, slender nearly to the point of being bony. The only callouses he'd ever developed were as a result of holding a pencil or paintbrush. As far as scars went... well. The large white mark in the center of his left hand never ceased to remind him of just how abusive the Voice was willing to be with his body. His fine motor skills were completely shot in that hand.

The overall appearance aside, however, they did technically belong to a thief.

The Voice had stolen plenty using his hands - whether it be objects, souls, or oftentimes both. Ryou swallowed the bile rising in his throat as he found his gaze drifting to the kitchen where he kept knives... they weren't meant for chopping, but... if he were to saw above the joint in his wrist with one of the serrated ones...

Ryou squeezed his eyes shut and simultaneously balled his hands into fists. Just how desperate was he to rid himself of the Spirit of the Ring?

… Pretty desperate, he realised, as he looked downwards at the sharp blade now being grasped with his right hand. Maybe just a finger would suffice; he wasn't sure if the exorcism of the Spirit of the Ring was worth a whole hand.

He swore he'd read somewhere that cutting through a finger required approximately the same amount of pressure as slicing up a carrot. He'd chopped quite a few carrots in his time, so if he just closed his eyes and carefully positioned the knife just so -

_"Ah!"_

His eyes snapped right back open the moment after the blade hit the table with a sickening thunk. A strangled whimpering noise made its way out of his mouth as he slowly looked down to survey his handiwork.

For the second instance in a short time bile swam in his throat as he looked down at the bloody stump that was left as evidence that his pinkie had once been attached to it. He hadn't cut cleanly... the ligament was splintered, though it was barely visible beneath the thick coating of blood. It gushed out at a rate that seemed ridiculous considering how small the laceration was.

Ryou dimly realised that he didn't have anything to staunch the wound and pressed his hand to his shirt. A red stain quickly blossomed on the fabric as he dropped the knife with a metallic clatter in favor of picking up the limp, dead little finger in his other hand. It was still warm.

He threw it dispassionately on the table amongst the other less repulsive substitutions for the ingredients the book dictated before wrapping the now-ruined hem of the shirt more tightly around the wound to stop the flow.

After a moment he reconsidered and let the blood puddle onto the table, squeezing around the rim of the stump to cause more to ooze out. His lower lip was also sufficiently bloodied from chewing on it to keep himself from screaming while he underwent this process, but eventually he had what he deemed enough. Mentally, he crossed _blood of a female jackal_ from the list.

Scanning the ingredients page - now splattered with thick gouts of blood - he noted the only thing missing was the eyeball.

Okay, a line needed to be drawn _somewhere_. He was not gouging his own eye out. No way in _hell_.

He cracked an egg into a bowl; the discoloured yolk emitted an odour so foul he gagged and nearly retched his cereal-dinner into the kitchen sink. The gooey consistency would work as an effective replacement. Holding his nose, he placed it at the centre of the table.

_Ready._

* * *

The Spirit of the Ring felt a shooting sensation that roused him prematurely from his much-needed slumber. It seemed as if he had only been asleep for a short while, and his mood was decidedly soured because of it. And that was before he became aware of the source of pain.

After a moment of muttered cursing he reluctantly threw the covers off of himself and sat up, rubbing at his eyes with one hand - _shit_ that hurt! He immediately pulled his the hand away when he unintentionally ignited another bout of pain. He held up the hand again but didn't immediately become aware of the problem. It most definitely hurt like hell, but _why_ it was hurting was beyond -

Four. Why did he only have four fingers? He counted again, to be safe, then held up his other hand, by this point sufficiently awake. Nine fingers. He appeared to be in possession of only _nine_ fingers. Now, that begged an important question; where the _fuck_ was the tenth one?

Had someone assaulted the vessel while he rested? If an idiotic mortal had damaged his Landlord, then there would be hell to pay, that was for sure.

The searing pain at what was once the base of his missing finger only served to piss him off further; if he was suffering, then the vessel - weak, pathetic little creature that he was - must surely be hurt badly.

_Host. Has someone injured you?_

The receiving end of their link was unresponsive, save for an intelligible muttering. Bakura strained slightly, breaking through the virtually ineffective mental barriers the vessel employed, and listened:

_To cleanse the filthy darkness from thine soul,_  
_If banishing a demon be thine goal -_

The host appeared to be chanting an incantation of some sort...

_Moonlight shall purge thee of the beast,_  
_And the grip of the shadows shall be ceased -_

The spirit instantly decided that he didn't like the sound of that. More than once the words "filthy darkness", "demon", and "beast" had been applied to him, and he certainly wasn't looking forward to being "banished".

What angered him the most, however, was the familiar voice reciting the treacherous spell. The spirit ground his teeth as he headed for the door of his soul room, intent on asserting his authority over his mutinous - and clearly somewhat suicidal - vessel.

What appeared on the other side of said door certainly wasn't what he expected. What should've been stony-walled corridor, dimly lit by sparse mounted candles, dripping their glutinous wax onto the cobbled flooring, was simply _nothingness._

A thick, omnipresent blanket of darkness, threatening to envelop him as soon as he stepped out of the confines of his pris- home, awaited him.

In spite of himself he squinted a bit as he peered into the darkness that most definitely should not have been there. He couldn't shake the feeling of familiarity that flooded him as he stared out, four-fingered hand resting against the door frame.

The chilled, dry air stung the inside of his throat as he took a slow breath and surveyed his surroundings - or, rather, the lack thereof - only to be jolted out of his concentrated state as the silence was shattered.

Words. After a moment of standing frozen and listening intently, the spirit made out the guttural rumbling - coming from deep within the gloom - to be words.

And this time the one speaking was most definitely _not_ his host.

* * *

**Ono: Evil cliffie is evil.**

_Christina: Too right... and we cut off poor little Ryoukins' finger! D;_

**Ono: Hee~ That was so totally my genius idea~ ;)**

_Christina: *whispers* she's totally a closet psychopath... help me._

**Ono: Who's a CLOSET psychopath anymore? *openly threatens readers with chainsaw* You should reviewwww.**

_Christina: You totally should, because I fear for my life right now *hides*_


	3. In Which the Ritual Fails Miserably

**Ono: Weeeeee are the champions, my friendssss! 'Cause weeeee will write more stuff, 'til the enddddd~**

_Christina: … I prefer Bohemian Rhapsody myself._

**Ono: I adore Another One Bites the Dust, but hey, this is more cheery. :D In any case, NEW CHAPTER.**

_Christina: Merry Frigging Easter, everybody._

**Ono: You're just mad 'cause you only got one Easter egg.**

_Christina: *sobs silently*_

**Ono: I think our reviewers deserve virtual Easter eggs, though.**

_Christina: Yeah, so Easter eggs for LittleBrokenWings and CryingMarionette; you guys are awesome. ^_^_

**Ono: We hereby promise not to eat your souls.**

_Christina: Hey, I'm not making any promises..._

**Ono: *eyebrow raise* And here I thought I was the psychotic one...**

_Christina: Well, you thought wrong! *cackles evilly*_

**Ono: While we sort out who's yami and who's hikari in this relationship, here's the next installment of the fic.**

* * *

_**Vitiate**_

_**Chapter Three: In Which the Ritual Fails... Miserably.**_

* * *

Upon completing the ritual Ryou was somewhat disappointed to find that he could detect no visible difference in the Ring. Or anything else, really. Glancing around shiftily he noted with an odd mixture of frustration and relief that none of his furniture came to life to swallow the Ring whole or any other such thing. (God, did he really believe that would happen? He was more sleep deprived than he initially thought.)

Ryou didn't know exactly what he expected... the Voice wouldn't be pleased about being evicted from the item that housed his soul, he imagined, so at the very least it would make sense for him to put up a bit of a fight. Screaming as he was dragged to the bowels of hell, for example, or attempting to drag his backstabbing 'host' along with him.

Instead, the Ring lay silently glinting amongst the scattered faux ritualistic objects, one of the pendulums dipped halfway in the puddle of Ryou's blood. Unintentionally, Ryou found himself reaching up to place his hand over the scars on his torso, fingers dipping into a couple of the indents beneath his shirt that had never completely healed up.

He shivered a bit before shaking it off. There was nothing for it. Putting the Ring back on to test whether or not the spirit was still inside was out of the question.

Ryou had been half-surprised upon retrieving the Ring from the refrigerator - holding it by the cord, of course, so it was less likely the pendulums would flail around and maim his injured hand any more than it already was - that the spirit stayed silent. Even when he wasn't wearing the item during Duelist Kingdom the Voice still spoke to him, force feeding lies into his head, and crept like a stalking animal through his soul room. But at the moment there wasn't even the faintest whisper, nor the quietest footstep.

He came to the conclusion that the spirit was resting, no doubt as exhausted, if not more, than Ryou himself. While he liked the idea that the Voice suffered just as much as him through the ordeal, the thought that the cursed thing was currently curled up in bed understandably irked him. Not to mention that killing the spirit in his sleep seemed too... easy.

In the end none of this really mattered. All that Ryou had to show for his mad scheme was a trashed apartment and a dismembered finger. Oh, and an angry spirit. When the Voice woke up, Ryou knew he would be given hell for severing his finger.

He could already hear it: _Now all of your idiot friends will be suspicious, you useless excuse for a vessel._

And not just his friends, Ryou realized with a sinking feeling in his gut, but teachers, strangers, anyone he happened to run into. His father, too, if the man kept his promise to come home for Christmas that year (not likely, but it was possible). Ryou wouldn't feel particularly troubled if it hadn't been for the fact that losing one's little finger wasn't a common occurrence. Not something that could be explained away easily, at least.

Suddenly his spontaneous decisions looked even more moronic than they had before. Glancing around, in a half-hearted attempt to distract himself from his abused appendage, Ryou took stock of his small home. His eyes came back to the table that the remains of the diorama stood on, looking as though it'd gone through World War II. Ryou's mouth went dry as the image of the near-demolished thing registered in his mind.

_Shit._

Forget his finger, the spirit would be absolutely livid that he'd more or less destroyed three days of his work.

Running, hiding or any attempt to escape the spirit's wrath would prove futile; he'd discovered that enough times before to know that the ever-present, ever-tormenting Voice would always find him again, seek him out, lure him back; nothing but a vicious cycle, and Ryou powerless to escape...

That uncharacteristic yet familiar anger began to surge through him, full-force and stronger than before. Why should he live in fear of a voice? Why should he allow this parasitic fiend to use and abuse his body as he pleased? Why should he?

…of course, he reminded himself somewhat bitterly, the Voice held all the power, the Voice knew how to utilise the energy of the Shadows (without the need for self-mutilation, too), and the Voice controlled him through the Ring, like a slave master, or a puppeteer, or a wicked, self-proclaimed deity.

The only thing keeping him from pulverising Ryou, from tearing him apart limb-from-limb, or decapitating him - as he'd often done with the bullies unfortunate enough to target his host - was the fact that the spirit needed his body.

The body which Ryou had now defiled. He knew there would be consequences for this... a punishment befitting the crime. He shuddered involuntarily, but caught himself. No. He would not be afraid of the Spirit. Not anymore.

_This is my body. _My_ body, not the _spirit's_ body, not _anyone's_ body except mine. I'll do what I like with it._

To hell with the Voice - both literally, and metaphorically.

_That's right, Spirit. You heard me. _Fuck_ you._

Shortly after he let his thoughts be heard, loud and clear, to the room, he braced himself for the inevitable mental onslaught.

...No response. How disappointing. Unless...

_Unless the spirit is gone?_

Hope, foolish, desperate hope, instantly began to bubble up in Ryou's chest. He licked his lips and stared at the now possibly vacant Millennium Ring.

Did he dare..?

Fingers shaking from either exhaustion or trepidation - or, quite possibly, both - reached out to tentatively touch the item.

_Ouch._

A strange, tingling sort of sensation. As though the Millennium Ring simmered with dark power, vengeful after Ryou's crazed ministrations. He drew his hand back as if burned, staring wide-eyed at the item began to glow dully. The yellow-gold haze grew more pronounced as it did when the spirit revealed himself with flourish.

It threw him off-guard, and he felt himself losing his balance, tripping forward and stumbling over his own feet, head smashing against the unyielding surface of the table. A moan escaped his lips as he crumpled, black seeping into the edges of his vision.

Amongst the pieces of shattered diorama, the large globules of old, semi-dried blood, and the fresher liquid now pooling around a vicious-looking head wound, Ryou Bakura's body lay dormant.

* * *

Oddly enough, the first thing that Ryou noticed upon regaining consciousness (in his mind, at least) consisted of the temperature of his soul room.

Said temperature seemed to have dropped several degrees since his last visit. Frigid air wormed its way through his clothes as though he wore nothing at all. The feeling of goosebumps welling up and the exposed hair on his arms standing on end irked him into opening his eyes.

Ryou blinked, as it seemed there were black blobs in his vision. Had he really hit his head that hard..? His eyesight grew less fuzzy after a few moments, but the blobs only became more pronounced.

There appeared to be a thick, tar-black substance on the far wall, just around the door. As Ryou watched the stuff pulsated and wriggled, stretching its gooey tentacles further across the cream-coloured wall.

He stared at it, wondering if hallucinating was possible in his soul room, though he knew the more likely answer had something to do with the Voice. Had he figured out what Ryou had done and incorporated these black tendrils into some form of punishment? A - what did he call them? - "penalty game"?

_Spirit. What is this?_

His question remained unanswered, the Voice remained unresponsive; it figured. The spirit only spoke to him when he saw fit, most often when the result of speaking directly benefited the vile entity.

The only sound to fill the silence was that of the dark goo's odd pulsations, slowly but steadily moving outwards across the walls. His soul room was frigid and unyielding on the best of days, but this new addition... it added an entirely new level to 'creepy'.

The pungent odour that the goop seemed to emanate mingled with the usual musty stench of dust and ancient stone. The dense cloud of noxious-looking purple gases wafted around, shrouding the already badly illuminated room in a curtain of darkness. He shivered, the action a mixture of fear and the sub-zero temperature.

Surely this couldn't be the doing of the spirit? He'd seen fit to punish Ryou plenty of times before this rather uncharacteristic incident, but he'd never unleashed anything reminiscent of this strange concoction... Could it be _harmful_?

_If this isn't the spirit's doing then... where exactly did it come from? Surely I couldn't have..?_

Ryou realised that fooling around with Shadow magic probably ranked in the top three most idiotic things that a mortal being could possibly do; especially when one didn't use the right ingredients. Was this a repercussion of his little experiment? He reached out, fingers brushing lightly against the glutinous substance oozing across the wall...

_What the..?_

Before he could form any sort of reaction, the goop retracted back into a long, malformed tentacle, waving around in the air for a split second before wrapping itself around Ryou's waist. The same repugnant ooze that he'd tentatively touched before seeped through his cotton t-shirt more quickly than water. The liquid, he discovered quickly, was incredibly sticky and equally cold.

His main concern changed from the mere discomfort said liquid caused in favour of paying attention to the crushing grip. All too quickly his organs were squashed against both his rib cage and each other, leaving little room to breathe.

Suspended three feet in the air, near-on asphyxiated and with off-violet sludge trailing languidly down his leg, Ryou remained frozen stiff, and absolutely _terrified_. In return, the malleable limb only moved again, twining around his body more fully, like an enormous serpent. He kicked and wriggled a bit, grabbing handfuls in an attempt to harm it, to no avail.

Whatever confidence he'd built up before - in preparation for his confrontation with the Voice - completely drowned in his terror. Fuck pride; he was being crushed to death by a giant slimy tentacle.

Inhaling with quite some difficulty as the thing tickled almost playfully at his throat, he somehow managed to regain the use of his vocal chords.

"Spirit!" Ryou screamed, writhing around in the unrelenting grasp of the slimy appendage, "This isn't funny. Please, make it stop. I'm sorry. I'm _sorry_. Please. Make it stop. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm-"

_Hush, mortal._

An intrusion; another entity tapping into the link between the spirit and his 'host'. Deep, grinding, nails-against-chalkboard, shocking Ryou enough to make him cease his wailing and go limp. His expression halted similarly, eyes bulging and mouth hanging partially open in a way that he might have had the self-consciousness to care about had he not been so horrified

_Excellent. I see that my servant has trained you well._

...Servant? This situation grew gradually more confusing by the second.

"Who are you?"

The tentacle squeezed him more tightly, the action accompanied by an ominous cackle, echoing against the bare walls of the corridor - clearly where the rest of this slimy creature remained hidden.

_It appears my servant has not seen fit to inform you of my existence. Ignorance is bliss, I suppose._

… If this monster referred to the spirit as his 'servant', this situation could only get much, much worse. The idea of something so malevolent, so evil, being just a pawn in another's game, just a marionette while another controlled the strings, absolutely terrified Ryou.

Gagging slightly at the repugnant odour of the repressive slime, he squirmed around and tried to free one of his arms, but to no avail.

"Who are you?" he repeated, albeit this time the words were choked and mangled, as his oxygen supply gradually depleted.

_You'll learn soon enough, mortal._

* * *

Thrust unceremoniously back into his physical body, Ryou breathed deeply and - once he'd gathered the strength to do so - rolled out of the puddle of alarming-large blood plasma pooling around him.

He let out a strange, strangled sound - half sob, half hysterical giggle - and realised that he'd hit his head pretty hard and probably given himself concussion...

Which had, of course, only naturally led to the strange _dream_ he'd just experienced. Only a dream, a figment of his imagination, a by-product of his worries about facing up to the Spirit.

...So why exactly were his arms and torso covered in a thick, purple slime?

_Oh god. Oh god oh god oh god._

Ryou leapt up, momentarily forgetting his throbbing headache and obscene amount of blood loss; a whitish haze shrouded his vision and he staggered forwards, blinded. He could, however, feel the coating of glutinous liquid oozing slowly downwards, dragged by gravity but seemingly out of cruel spite, a vicious reminder...

Miraculously, he located the bathroom and tore his soiled clothes from his body. Unceremoniously dropping them to the floor, his vision now significantly less clouded, he stumbled towards the shower unit.

He reached in and set the dial to the hottest setting available, intent on scalding and scrubbing his body so vigorously he'd somehow wash away all traces of the creature's slime... and perhaps all memory of the tentacled beast in the process.

Selecting the strongest scented gel from his collection - which happened to be coconut fragranced - he inhaled deeply from the container and attempted to rid his nostrils of that lingering, repulsive odour. He shuddered. Goosebumps began to form across his exposed, naked skin, as he waited for the cascade of water to heat.

Since when did the temperature drop several degrees?

Climbing into the shower unit, the tepid water warmed his skin slightly, but overall did little to distract him from the feeling that someone - or something - was watching him. He shivered involuntarily.

_Oh god. Don't turn around, Ryou. Don't turn. Don't..._

He turned.

Beyond the shower door that he'd somehow managed to habitually close there was an indistinct shape. Once or twice when he'd bathed before he swore he saw someone standing there before, but chalked it up to his paranoia. While that figure was clearly a pale, slim humanoid shape, barely visible amongst the accumulated steam, this one was decidedly different.

While the other hallucination - that's what Ryou told himself it was, just a hallucination, in spite of knowing better - hadn't moved, this one clearly was clearly getting closer and closer. Ryou stayed stock still as the looming dark mass came soundlessly forward. He couldn't make out the outline of it in spite of the sudden closeness. The thing seemed to have no distinct shape aside from sporadically moving blackness, first twisted into one form, then another. For a few moments it actually managed to turn into a humanlike figure, a hulking silhouette nearly double Ryou's size.

Ryou had instinctively backed up at some point without realising it. The goose-flesh prickled as he attempted to squeeze himself further into a corner.

Even as he pressed impossibly further back, the creature standing outside of the shower (because that's what it was, a creature, a monster, as much as Ryou wished it was just goddamned hallucination) pressed itself against the glass.

Ryou's breath caught in his throat as he made out eyes the colour of freshly spilled blood, the only unchanging factor in its appearance. Tiny slit pupils stared at him through the fragile barrier, and he only managed to tear his gaze away to look down at the diluted purple liquid seeping into the shower from beyond the glass. The ungodly stench from before had returned full-force, overpowering all other senses.

"Oh, _god_..." A strangled sound made its way out of Ryou's throat as he looked back up, his meager meal from what seemed like hours ago welling up in his throat.

He covered his mouth with his hand and shut his eyes as tightly as he could. Somehow the water had turned icy cold in the space of the past minute, searing the half of his body that was in it with its chill. As a result every muscle in his exhausted body had tensed, shaking horribly from a combination of the cold water and pure, unadulterated fear.

_Spirit..?_ Ryou mentally reached out for the presence that he'd grown to hate, searching if only to feel the tinge of something Voice was horrid, but he'd helped Ryou before...

All he found in the back of his mind was frigid darkness, pulsating against his consciousness along with the deep, grating voice:

_Hello, mortal._

* * *

_Christina: And so, Zorc finally shows his ugly mug! About time!_

**Ono: He... sort of shows his ugly mug... kind of... mostly he rapes Ryou mentally. :D**

_Christina: Gosh, what a lovely guy. :')_

**Ono: You all know you're totally into him.**

_Christina: And you also know that you totally want to leave us a review, to motivate us... (:_

**Ono: All shall be revealed in time.**


	4. In Which Ryou is Beslimed

**Ono: Thank you to our two lovely reviewers for the last chappeh.**

_Christina: CryingMarionette, and SangNoire, you guys are the best!_

**Ono: I hope you guys enjoyed that shower action, 'cause there's more. (Psst, that's a warning.)**

_Christina: This chapter isn't for the faint of heart..._

**Ono: Or the weak of stomach. :D**

_Christina: But if you've made it this far, you should be fine!_

* * *

_**Vitiate**_

_**Chapter Four: In Which Ryou is Beslimed**_

* * *

Ryou stood very, very still, frozen beneath the torrent of ice-cold water hammering down upon him. Internally, things were a completely different ballgame; Ryou's subconscious thoughts were a blurred, mangled mess of panic and terror.

If one battled through the rational, irrational and just damn ridiculous of his worries, the basic, primary problem could be deciphered as:

_I'm trapped, naked, and a giant, tentacled beast is after me._

The situation seemed dismal, to say the least. Without the assistance of the usually omniscient Ring Spirit, Ryou could safely say - without a shadow of a doubt - that he was completely and utterly doomed.

Shutting off the water, his body started to spasm due to the severe drop in temperature he'd exposed himself to. In his utter desperation, he attempted contact with the spirit one final time.

_Spirit? Please, help me._

Nothing. The Spirit of the Ring remained silent. It didn't make any sense. Granted, with every situation in the past he had never asked for his help; he simply slipped into control without so much as a whisper to Ryou, but still. Surely he wouldn't want Ryou injured, or damaged, or _killed_?

_I thought I was your vessel, Spirit? I thought you needed me?_

Ryou felt incredibly low as he begged for the assistance of the parasitic being that he had been attempting to rid himself of not too long ago. But, given the choice, he would accept him over the monster that currently had him cornered in a grating, unnatural laughter welled up once again, echoing eerily; whether inside the chasms of his mind, or against the metallic surfaces of the bathroom, he wasn't sure. There was a steady drip drip from the shower-head, interrupted by the off-rhythmic sound of the slime leaking across the floor.

_If you are afraid now..._ The new voice said, _It tickles me to imagine how you will react to my true form._

One of the rapidly changing tentacles wrapped itself around the handle of the shower door with an abhorrent sound. Some desperate part of Ryou hoped that perhaps the slime would be too slick to properly maintain a grasp on it, but a firm yank not only opened the door, but ripped it completely off of the hinges. The glass fell to the ground with a spectacular sound, muffled only where it hit the thicker violet goop.

Ryou cringed and shut his eyes, trying to step away from the far spread glass, and, by extension, the creature, only to slip on a diluted puddle of cold water and slime. He fell and sustained a glancing blow to his head when it hit one of the handles meant to adjust the temperature. His vision spun from where he lay in a pathetic sprawling heap on the ground, the only consolation being that he could no longer properly see the monster.

"Damn..." he hissed in spite of himself. It was a wonder he hadn't killed himself yet, jarring his skull twice in one day. Though, at this point, death in this way might be merciful.

It reignited the pain from beforehand, but was not merciful enough to leave him unconscious. Every bit of him curled into a defensive position. Useless, but instinctive. It wasn't as though lashing out or running away could be considered possible options. Better to be in the form of a small ball than to have himself fully exposed.

His cheek rested in the reeking ooze and a good portion of his hair had become sodden with it in place of water. So much for cleaning it off.

When the tentacles were not instantly upon him Ryou dared to open one eye only to squeeze it shut again and outright cover his face with his hands when he caught sight of the looming beast. From this angle it appeared even larger than before.

At some point, Ryou had begun to accept traumatic supernatural events as a part of his life. Perhaps it was as early as when he first came across his newest group of friends slumped, unconscious (soulless, he would learn later) over on his Monster World RPG table. Or perhaps as late as when he awoke with a stab wound on his arm, wind whipping at his face as Slifer loomed over him. There were countless times to choose from, and probably many more that he did not remember as he was not conscious at the time.

But this. This topped them all.

His depressed thoughts were interrupted by a small hiss and a tentacle prodding at his face.

_Trust my servant to leave me a vessel that is damaged._

No, not his face, Ryou realised all too quickly, but the stump that was left of his finger. Behind the false security of his hands he blinked in slight confusion. Pain ignited as the intrusive touch became a little rougher and blood beaded up out of the still relatively fresh wound. He bit on his lower lip to keep himself from letting out any hurt noise, not sure how the thing would react to it. For all he knew, showing signs of pain might make the sadism that the tentacles showed before when they constricted around him return with a vengeance.

The creature continued speaking in what could have been near-conversational tone had it not been for the arrogance underlying the rough tenor. _I trust you have no other deformities?_

"Of course not!" Ryou protested, before he'd even considered the dangers of engaging the tentacled beast in conversation. He only hoped that the thing would not be the cause for any deformities.

A deep, rumbling noise caused Ryou to flinch, before he realised that the monster had started to chuckle - if the thunderous cacophony could possibly be regarded as such - and, despite the situation, he found himself irritated.

"What's so funny?"

_You remind me of someone, mortal. At first, I struggled to see the resemblance - beyond the physical characteristics, at least - but now, I am starting to comprehend it more fully._

Ryou wasn't entirely certain if he should be reassured, or terrified, by the newfound sense of familiarity.

"Who?"

_Do you need to ask, mortal?_

If he'd closed his eyes, he could've almost pretended that he'd somehow ended up outside his apartment, during a particularly violent thunderstorm. Yes, drenched from head to toe, covered in slime - no, mud - and the booming laughter - no, thunder - resonating off of the surrounding apartment blocks.

He couldn't fool himself; especially since the beslimed beast seemed persistent in holding a conversation with him.

"No."

The thought of being compared to the Spirit made Ryou feel nauseous, but - somewhere, in the deepest corners of his subconscious, niggling - somewhat enthused, too. He couldn't deny that the Spirit of the Millennium Ring was indeed a powerful entity... although inherently evil, too, he reminded himself as he repressed that particular emotion. He certainly did not wish to be associated with him.

Ryou attempted to distract himself and simultaneously change the subject by asking, "What do you want?"

_What do I want..?_ Ryou shuddered at the iciness that had entered its tone, and when he peeked at it he could see the blood red eyes narrowed to the point of being near imperceivable. _I want all-consuming darkness to liberate this filthy excuse for a world. I want to char and devour any and every being that I please, mortal and immortal alike. But until I obtain what I truly desire... I believe I can settle for you, mortal._

"W-where..." He swallowed once, twice, attempting to reign in the sudden bout of skittish fear that almost overcame him again. "Where did you come from?"

The laughter returned, deep and throaty and so very condescending. _You already know the answer to that. You freed me._

'Freed'..? From where? Part of him wanted to ask the question aloud, but his mind had become rather numb in the course of the past few minutes. God, it was so cold... the tentacles that had become a bit too comfortable with touching him slid along his exposed hip and thigh, causing his spine to arch and a high-pitched noise of protest to come from his throat. They were unbearable, as well, every bit of their slimy, slithery flesh - if they were even truly made of muscle and tissue.

He licked his lips, only to instantly regret it when he tasted the slick substance. "If I asked you to go back to where you came from... would you?"

The 'thunder' resumed once more, and Ryou assumed the answer to be negative.

"L-look... I didn't mean to do this, I was just trying to -" he found himself being cut off as one of the tentacles shoved itself into his mouth.

_I grow tired of idle talk, mortal. I shall confirm that this poor excuse for a body does not in fact have any deformities that would prevent me from properly executing my plans._

Within moments his curled up form had been yanked into one that suited the beast: on his back, arms and legs splayed, with tentacles writhing like they had minds of their own across expanses of his skin. Ryou tried to drag his limbs backwards to reorient himself into a self-hug, but the larger being overpowered him with the ease that a parent exercised when restraining a small child. Uneven coatings of the cold liquid were left behind where the tentacles trailed and cupped and squeezed accordingly, leaving Ryou a shaking mass.

Through his shock and disgust he managed to gather that he should fight back. How, exactly, when he was being held down by a mixture of innumerous limbs and thick slime, was another matter entirely.

The appendage in his mouth tasted acrid and bitterer than anything Ryou had ever had the misfortune of experiencing before. His lips had to stretch uncomfortably far in order to accommodate it, as did his cheeks when it forced some of itself into them, coiling a bit in order to properly fit. Then, much to his horror, the tip began to nudge at the entrance to his gullet. He gagged, once, twice, but of course the pathetic convulsions his body initiated in order to expel harmful things would not work in this situation.

The hard edge of his teeth did not seem to bother it all that much, nor did his tongue, which the tentacle crushed to the bottom of his mouth with its mere size. He bit down on it multiple times - not even proper bites, really, just sad little attempts at moving his jaw - in a desperate attempt to get the slimy thing to leave.

The only consequences seemed to be that it drove deeper, past merely wriggling around in his mouth to worming into the tight cavern of muscle that was his throat. The slime lubricating it made this a far too easy task, though the walls of his esophagus ached, and his gag reflex kicked in fully.

_Get off me! Get off me! Get off me...!_

"Nnnnggh," the choked, muffled sound that escaped from between his forcefully parted lips hardly achieved the desired effect.

_This body shall suffice._

Ryou wasn't sure whether he felt comforted or terrified - or both - by the tentacled beast's statement. Suffice for what, exactly? However, the beslimed appendage retracted itself from his gullet and around the rest of his body. He found himself too relieved to care about the rather ominous statement. He coughed, spitting large globules of dark-purplish goop onto the bathroom floor.

Wiping at the trail of glutinous slime dribbling down his chin, he stole a glance in the direction of the dangerously silent creature.

_What the...?_

It'd gone. Disappeared. _Poof_.

The only forms of evidence to suggest that the monstrous entity hadn't been a figment of Ryou's vivid, somewhat macabre imagination were the thick puddles of viscous liquid pooling across the floor, and the rancid-tasting fluid oozing slowly through his esophagus.

Ryou would've laughed, would've screamed with sheer joy that somehow - somewhat miraculously, and certainly unexpectedly - he'd been saved. Except, his abused larynx didn't wish to correspond, and instead his mouth simply opened and closed repeatedly, until he began to resemble a wide-eyed, rather surprised-looking trout.

He pounded a closed fist in the center of his chest and hacked once, twice, before spitting up another glob of the thick liquid. His other hand yanked the dial on the shower back on, uncaring whether the temperature would scald or chill him. It turned out to be the former, unfortunately for his clammy skin.

After allowing himself a yelp of pain and turning the knob completely the other way he positioned himself under it and opened his mouth so as to wash out every last bit of the sour taste. Once he had expelled more than a few mouthfuls he attempted to clean some of the gunk off of his body as originally intended.

It came off, but only after he very nearly scratched the skin to the point of bleeding. He discovered that his hands still shook slightly, and no amount of reassuring himself that it was okay, the thing was gone now, served to ease his anxiety.

When he had mostly cleaned off his hair - using up two bottles of shampoo in an attempt to rid himself of the filth - Ryou stepped out of the shower, narrowly avoiding the scattered glass.

Each and every one of his towels had fallen into the thick, now-congealing puddles, much to his chagrin; he didn't bother attempting to salvage any of them in order to dry himself off. While he did not particularly enjoy the idea of strutting about stark naked, there was only a short distance between the bathroom and bedroom where he could safely dress.

Naturally it struck him as rather odd when his feet instead took him to another room in his apartment. Specifically, the one that just so happened to contain the Millennium Ring.

Ryou glared rather hatefully at the aforementioned object. Why hadn't the cursed, wretched, ignorant inhabitant helped him? He knew from experience that it held the infuriating power to return to its host - even if he wasn't wearing the Ring at the time - and possess him. Possess him, and protect him.

So why didn't the Spirit help him?

Against his better judgement, he clasped damp fingers around the cold metal of the glorified pendant, before hurling it against the opposite wall.

_Thanks for nothing, you_ bastard.

The Millennium Ring collided with the plasterboard, a satisfying crack echoing throughout the noiseless apartment. Even that didn't summon the Spirit from whatever nook or cranny he'd been hiding in throughout Ryou's ordeal.

"Goddammit, where are you? I never thought I'd actually want to see you, Spirit, but I do," he spat out, his voice harsh and sharp, and every syllable causing him immense pain in his sore throat. "Where are you?" He crossed the room, and picked up the Millennium Ring again, clenching the fingers of his non-mutilated hand tightly around it.

Then - before he'd even registered what he was doing, or considered the consequences of the action - he'd started smashing the precious, priceless artefact repeatedly against the wall.

"Come out, Spirit. Come out!"

Bits and pieces of plaster fell down in fragments, and at some point Ryou sliced his hand open on one of the pendulums; he was too angry to notice or care about the abuse he wreaked on both the wall and himself. That was, until the moment that he heard a voice in his head once more.

Unfortunately, it wasn't the one that he sought.

_Miss me?_

* * *

_Christina: Well daaaamn, we thought we'd got rid of him!_

**Ono: Apparently the magic of plot convenience is not on our side.**

_Christina: But it does mean that more tentacle porn can ensue... _

**Ono: Yeeep, having Ryou deep-throat that tentacle can only satisfy Zorc for so long. ;P**

_Christina: Eeep. My poor baby! _

**Ono: Reviews motivate us so very much, and it makes us uber happy to hear from y'all. *gets down on hands and knees* So... pleeeeeease~?**

_Christina: Besides, if you don't review, we'll feed you to Zorc. :)_

**Ono: And I shall be very unhappy in spite of witnessing you being devoured. :'D**

_Christina: Ono, we should probably stop before we scare them all away... _


End file.
